Branded
by Athan Raczynski
Summary: 'Wholly intoxicating to have a woman such as her, so fiery and independent, at his mercy.' Rated M just to be safe.


_In my headcanon, after Karachi, Sherlock and Irene meet for dinner every now and then. This is, um, just the appetiser._

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**Branded**

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His hands trail down her skin in awe. It is porcelain, alabaster, ivory; poetic terms that could mean anything in the literary world. In reality, it is only white with just a hint of yellow and pink in it, like the inside of a seashell.

Her blue veins sometimes create highlights where they lay close to the surface. He likes to trace them, their pathways like tiny rivers underneath her oh-so-soft flesh. Sometimes he does it with his fingertips, other times with his tongue. She never seems to mind, only smiles and lets herself go limp and patient against the mattress, indulging his whimsy with the good humor of a woman who adores having the attention paid to her.

Sometimes she will giggle, especially if he gets too close to the inside of her elbows. Her skin is sensitive there as it is hardly ever touched. He likes that thought, that there are parts of her still virginal though he knows clearly that he isn't her first, maybe not even her last, and he relishes on being their _conquistador_.

At first, he is never rough with her, not unless she asks him to be. On occasion it seems that she craves it, needs the sharper side of love like a knife's edge against her. There is a fine line between the tease of cool metal on warm skin and drawing delicate red lines of blood, and it all depends on the control of the person wielding the weapon. After a time, he is able to admit to himself that on occasion, he needs to be rough with her too, to assert himself over her in a way that is primal and certainly alpha male behavior. She surrenders to him and it puts him in a position of power and control; trust and esteem.

Wholly intoxicating to have a woman such as her, so fiery and independent, at his mercy.

He loves to suckle her, to raise marks on her, as if painting a canvas of his entire creation. Sometimes he does so lightly and they are a pinkish-red color that eases quickly back to its normal tone. Other times she will cry out, arching her back, and hold his head with her fingers tangled tightly in his raven curls, a silent entreaty for him not to stop because it hurts so good and is on the right side of pain-pleasure dichotomy still. He can't help but give into her urgings then because somewhere within himself there is an animal who wants all the other males in the area to know that she belongs to him.

Sadly, humans can't scent mark, not in any way that's noticeable to another human. It subverts the need that still exists in them to mark, to claim, and so that seldom acknowledged part of his nature must find another way to be satisfied.

She stretches in the bed, her fingers feathering lightly over the raised mark on the underside of her breast. It will darken, though it isn't very large. The flesh there is too fragile for much abuse and his always growing experience has taught him that it's too quick, too easy, to cross the line there between the kind of pain that adds to and is absorbed by sexual excitement, and the kind that just fucking hurts.

She turns to him, smiling, and they kiss. His hands cup and caress her tiny waist, absorbed in the luxurious satin feel of her. He smiles against her lips, and she nips his mouth. He can tell that he only has a short time before the tables are turned and it is she with her teeth in his skin, marking him up, making him as completely and entirely _hers_...

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He sees his reflection in the airplane's lavatory, fingertips tracing the perimetre of a purple mark in his suprasternal notch. It's not something he'd admit to her, but he often wishes he could display her artwork and elicit a reaction that would demonstrate they're there: a gape from John, Mrs Hudson's grimace, even Mycroft's gasp. He likes having her alive more than the alternative, though, and in the days following this encounter, just as in any other, he hides those brands under his usual clothing; he only wears them as a private joy, and he watches the bruises and scratches fade with a sense of loss.


End file.
